


Worthy

by OftenWrongSoong



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Biting, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta'd, Past Tense, Present Tense, Rimming, Scratching, Self-Harm, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, we die like the Bentley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 05:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OftenWrongSoong/pseuds/OftenWrongSoong
Summary: What can an angel do, against such hurts?He does what only he would dare to do. He closes the gap between them and draws the very heat of damnation to his breast, clasps the demon close. The flames will not touch him because he knows love, and he knows that to truly feel loved you must give love in return.The love he has is as wide as the universe, ever expanding and infinite. It is not a thing that could be diminished by being shared. It is armor and shield and sword, and he soars on its wings and will not fall, and will not Fall.





	Worthy

**Author's Note:**

> Don't you know I'm no good for you?  
> I've learned to lose, you can't afford to  
> Tore my shirt to stop you bleeding  
> But nothing ever stops you leaving  
> Quiet when I'm coming home and I'm on my own  
> And I could lie, say I like it like that  
> Like it like that  
> Don't you know too much already?  
> I'll only hurt you if you let me  
> Call me friend but keep me closer  
> (Call me back)  
> And I'll call you when the party's over  
> Quiet when I'm coming home and I'm on my own  
> And I could lie, say I like it like that  
> Like it like that  
> But nothing is better, sometimes  
> Once we've both said our goodbyes  
> So let's just let it go  
> Let me let you go  
> Quiet when I'm coming home and I'm on my own  
> And I could lie, say I like it like that
> 
> Billie Eilish - When the Party's Over

The first time, Aziraphale had reacted in exactly the wrong way. He had shouted. Things like 'what on _earth_ do you think you're _doing_ ?' and 'Why _would_ you?' and 'How could you be so _stupid_?'. Of course, it all came from a place of love. As an angel, everything did. But it was precisely the wrong thing to do, and Crowley had screamed and ranted and thrown things and then stalked away in a towering rage, and Aziraphale hadn't seen him for a fortnight. By which time, of course, the angel was beside himself with fear, and when Crowley reappeared Aziraphale had told him how worried he had been, and how angry he was, and that set the demon off again, and he had locked himself in his flat and refused to answer his phone. At least, Aziraphale thought, at least this time he knew where Crowley was.

* * *

The second time, Aziraphale had thrown his hands in the air, despairing. 'Again? What is _wrong_ with you? Why would you do this to yourself? And just look a the state of this room!' Crowley had bared his teeth and snarled, swore at the angel and _spat_ , and in that moment Aziraphale came the closest he ever had to hitting him. He had turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him, and had ignored the demon in righteous indignation for three days. By which time, of course, the room and the demon in it were in an even worse state. Aziraphale had pressed his lips together and sighed through his nose, and Crowley had squared up to him, crowding him, spoiling for a fight, swearing and shoving. Aziraphale had jutted out his chin and stared him down, and Crowley glared right back before shoving past him and disappearing again. Aziraphale refused to allow himself to worry about where the demon had gone. Instead, he decided to do some research.

* * *

The third time was... better. For both of them. Not easier, not by any means. But better.

* * *

Aziraphale pushed the door open as quietly as he could. The demon's bedroom was dark, sunlight filtering through heavy drapes throwing deeper shadow over shadow. He could smell spilt wine and stale sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of blood.

"Hello." Aziraphale slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. He stood still for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the low light.

"Fuck off." Crowley was slumped against the wall furthest from the door, gangly legs splayed out in front of him. He was shirtless and had summoned his wings, wore them like a ragged cloak over his skinny chest. In one hand he clutched a bottle, in the other a clump of night-dark feathers. The floor around him was littered with the coal chip curls of his own plumes, wafting in shivering dance in the gust of the door opening and closing, the fluffs of down drifting amongst empty bottles and broken glass.

"Come to lecture me?" The demon sneered, his head lolling down to his chest before snapping back up to pin the angel in the glare of his sulfurous eyes.

"No." Aziraphale sat down on the floor, next to the door. He fussed for a small moment, minutely adjusting his jacket to accommodate the unaccustomed position. "I thought that, perhaps, you'd like someone to talk to."

"If I wanted to talk, _angel,_ " the word curled away from his lifted lip like smoke, "I wouldn't be alone."

The angel nodded, considering. "All right. That's understandable."

"What are you _doing?_ " Narrowed eyes, cat-like in the gloom, suspicious. "You here to analyse me, council me? The good Samaritan on the end of the line?"

"If that's what you'd like." Aziraphale crossed his ankles, laced his fingers together.

"Oh, fuck _off_ , angel!" A bark of bitter laughter. "You and I both know I'm _way_ beyond that. Skip it and go straight to the padded room w-with the wipe-clean floor, and the jacket with the extra-long sleeves. Do not pass Go." He waved the bottle. "Do not collect two-hun... hundred pounds." He upended the bottle in the vague direction of his face and regarded it scornfully when it proved to be empty before tossing it irritably onto the floor, where it failed to shatter spectacularly. Aziraphale watched it roll, kicking up puffs of onyx.

"Is there anything you'd like me to do?"

"Fuck. Off."

"Apart from that."

"What if that's all I want?" Sodium lamp eyes, hollow cheeks, lips stretched thin. "What if all I want is to be left alone?"

"I don't think that's a good idea." Aziraphale stayed very still. Crowley glared. Then the demon shook his head with a snort.

"Fine. Stay. You wanna watch, is that it? Want me to put on a show?" He slurred as he extended one wing and wrenched a pin feather loose. It came free with a gout of dark blood, and he regarded it blearily for a moment before he launched it like a dart at the angel. It defied him and spiraled inexorably to the floor and he watched it dully, lip lifting, half sneer, half snarl.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale's gaze sought the demon's. "Can you tell me why?"

"Why what?" A toss of the head, clench-jawed, dismissive. Avoiding, deflecting, bounce the question off the angled planes of sharp chin and jutting cheekbone.

"Why do you feel the need to do this?"

"Devil made me do it." Sharp white teeth, grin with no humor.

"Because you're a demon?"

"Because I'm _evil._ " A rictus grin under panicked eyes, and the hollow shadow underneath jumping with twitching muscle. "Because I'm _wicked._ "

"So... you feel as if you deserve this?"

"Deserve it? Angel, I-I _earned_ this!" He threw his arms wide, spread his bloody wings in mockery. "All this pain, all-all this _hurt,_ that's my right!"

Aziraphale took in the state of Crowley's body with a swift glance and forced his shock not to show in his eyes, kept his gaze fixed to the demon's, ignored the welts and bruises and scratches over scars. "I don't think so. I think you deserve better."

"So, what? You think I deserve to be happy, to be _loved?_ " Crowley's wings snapped shut, clapping around his body with a smack of displaced air. "The Fallen don't have the privilege."

"I think you do."

"You don't know." The demon's voice was lethal, venomous. "You don't know what I've done. Vile, evil, unspeakable things."

"Perhaps." Aziraphale nodded. "I think you've done other things, too. Things that are..."

"Don't you dare, angel." Snarled, bitter, bitten words. "Don't you _dare_ tell me I'm a good person. I-I know what I am."

"Perhaps _what_ you are, and _who_ you are, are different things." Aziraphale mused to himself, eyes averted, fingers worrying knuckles.

"I _know_ who I am. I'm dirt. Fallen. Worthless." His wings drooped, his arms fell to his sides.

"What would it take," the angel cocked his head, "for me to convince you otherwise?"

"Dunno." Sharp shoulders rose and fell.

"Can I tell you what I think? Who I think you are?"

"Angel..." A growl, a warning, hackles lifted, lips pulled back. Beaten dog, defensive, no fight left.

"I think you're too hard on yourself. I think you're brave, and clever. I think you're gentle, when it counts. And I think other people, and perhaps you yourself, have told you otherwise."

"So what?" Hiss, spit, but no venom left. "What is this, absolution? I'm beyond redemption, angel, you know that."

"And if I forgive you? Would that be enough?"

"You can't forgive me." Whispered plea. Silent prayer to an absent deity.

"I can. And I will, as many times as you need. And I can tell you, Crowley, that I value you immensely. You are very dear to me."

"Not..." Crowley's head rolled, looking away from the angel.

"Would it be alright if I came and sat next to you? You can say no..."

"Yeah. Yeah, you... Yeah."

Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet and moved slowly and quietly across the room, ebony gusts and spilt wine stink wafting in his wake. He lowered himself to the floor next to the demon, within reach but not touching.

"You are very brave, you know. Far braver than you give yourself credit for."

"What's so brave about sitting in the dark an-and getting drunk on your own?"

"You're brave for letting me in. And I'm sorry that I haven't been looking after you as well as I might have."

"Don't need looking after." Crowley tried and failed for conviction.

"I'd _like_ to look after you. If you'll let me."

"I don't know what to do!" It was a harsh whisper that almost strangled him as he turned his lambent eyes to the angel. "I don't know how to deal with, with this _feeling_ , like I'm just... just, fucking..."

"Come here, dear." Aziraphale raised his arm, and Crowley swept his wings back to curl his body into the angel and grind his forehead into his collar, throat brimstone hot with unsaid words and unshed tears. Aziraphale placed his hand between the demon's shoulders, and suddenly Crowley was weeping, shaking and gasping for air. The angel smoothed his hand between the demon's shivering wings, offering wordless comfort, and waited until the wailing slowed to gulping sobs and then to shuddering sighs.

"Sorry." The word was mumbled into cream and gold.

"There is _absolutely nothing_ for you to be sorry for, dear."

Crowley swallowed hard and sat back on his heels. Aziraphale regarded the demon's red-rimmed eyes, blotchy tear-stained face, running nose.

"You're beautiful."

Crowley gave a watery laugh and smeared his hand over his eyes. "I'm a fucking nuisance."

"Yes, dear, but you're _my_ fucking nuisance."

* * *

The fourth time is after the end that wasn't, when nothing happened and everything changed because of it. Where an angel and a demon try to unravel knotted thought and feeling and end up drinking too much and saying too little. Crowley retreats to the familiar territory of acid snark and bitter sarcasm and Aziraphale watches him stalk away, long arms swinging in agitation. He hears the door in the little flat above the bookshop slam and puts down his glass, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. He sighs and wills himself sober, and then removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves to wash up their glasses before following the demon's path upstairs.

"Crowley."

"Fuck off!" The reply is only partly muffled by the door. Aziraphale tries the handle and is unsurprised to find it locked.

"Crowley, I just want to talk."

Something hits the other side of the door, shaking it in the frame.

"I'm coming in." Aziraphale walks through the door. It's not hard for him, atoms are mostly empty space when you know how to find the gaps.

Crowley has a lamp in his hand and his arm back ready to fling it at the door. The angel looks at him, takes in his heaving chest and flushed cheeks, the panic sweat-soaked shirt that clings to his lean chest. The demon stares at him with wild eyes before turning and launching the lamp into the wall behind him with a howl.

"Stay away, angel, I'm warning you!" Lips pulled back from teeth, masking fear with aggression.

"All right." Aziraphale puts his hands up, placating. "I'm not coming any closer."

"I'm going, Aziraphale, I'm going away. I can't do this any more." He makes no move to do so, hands clenching into fists and then loosening again. Clench, relax, clench.

"Why do you want to leave?"

"Because..." he bites the word and pulls it into a hiss between his clenched teeth, "it's all going to go wrong, I can _feel_ it."

"Why do you think that it's going to go wrong?"

"Because everything I touch does! I fuck everything up, angel, over and over again! And I'll fuck all this up too, and then it won't just be _me_ I've ruined, it'll be _you_ , and-and..." His pupils are wide, nameless dread in their dark depths, fingers twitching. Somewhere, in another place and time, his wings are shivering. Aziraphale can almost hear the dry rattle of feathers. "And I can't do it, angel, I-I'm not strong enough. I can't go through it again."

"What do you fear is going to happen?"

"I'll lose you." Crowley's shoulders are shaking. "They'll come for you and take you away, and you won't come back, and I can't, I can't go through that again, I can't lose you again." The demon's voice cracks and shatters, his long hands fly to cover his face.

Aziraphale lowers his arms, slowly, slowly.

"Oh, my dear, I'm not going to leave you."

"You won't have a _choice!_ " Thin fingers working, nails on skin. "They'll find out, and then they'll take you, and if I go, at least then..."

"Crowley..." Aziraphale takes a risk. He knows he might be pushing his luck, but he steps in and takes the demon's wrists, gently pulls his hands away from his face.

"Thank you." The angel says. Crowley gulps and shudders, tries to plaster a sneer onto his twisted mouth.

"What for?"

"For caring for me so much. I know it's difficult for you to admit that, and it means _such_ a lot to me that you are concerned for my welfare."

"Don't, just... Don't." Crowley snatches his hands from the angel's grip. "I'm a bastard, a complete and total bastard. How can you... I can't..."

"I love you." The words slip easily from the angel's lips, honest and simple. Crowley clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth creak.

"You... You can't love me. I'm Fallen. I'm worthless. I don't deserve..."

"You are the most worthy person I know, Crowley. You _do_ deserve my love."

"I, nuh, y..." He turns his head away. "I can't give it back. I... I don't..."

"It doesn't matter if you don't love me back. You don't have to."

"I _want_ to." He's staring resolutely at something a thousand miles away through the wall, jaw clenching, tendons in his neck tight as whipcord. "I feel... It's a lot, you know? And, and I don't know _how_ I feel, sometimes, about you, and everything..."

"It's all right. Whatever you feel, it's all right. You're allowed to feel any way you want."

"I hurt myself again." A whispered admission.

"Thank you for telling me. Is it bad?"

One bony shoulder rises and falls. "Just knocked myself about a bit."

"Well, that's good. It's progress, dear. Can I ask why?"

Aziraphale doesn't close the gap between them, and Crowley isn't moving away. Progress.

"I'm a fuckup. Always have been, always will be. I deserve it."

"Crowley, _please_ look at me."

It takes a visible effort for the demon to wrench his head round to meet the angel's gaze, and when he does his amber eyes are those of a cornered leopard, furious and afraid.

"You are _not_ a failure." Aziraphale puts every ounce of conviction he has into his words and pours pure love from his eyes. "You are an exceptional being, who has accomplished extraordinary things. You are beautiful, and worthy, and I love you."

Walls that could withstand a battering ram can be eroded by a trickle of cool water. The demon's defense crumbles and collapses, foundations undermined. The flood water breaks over him in the sound of raindrops on wing-beats and the drowning of civilizations pouring from him as his head bows.

"Would it be all right if I held you?" Aziraphale's soft voice is soothing balm to ragged soul. Crowley nods, not trusting his voice as he holds his arms away from his sides, and the angel wraps him up and draws him in.

Crowley's body is stiff and angular against his, rigid lines and sharp joints and tense muscle clothed in six thousand years of bruises. Aziraphale holds him gently but firmly, willing him strength and support through the palms of his hands pressed into the lean back. The demon breathes a trembling sigh and grinds his face into his shoulder, weeping his anxiety out in shuddering breaths to soak away into the soft faun velvet. His long hands come up hesitantly to rest lightly on Aziraphale's shoulder-blades, a barely-there whisper of fingertips. In response Aziraphale turns his head and presses his lips to the demon's neck.

The fragile sense of calm shatters under his mouth. Crowley's body tenses in his arms, musculature shocked into electric rigidity and fingers digging with startling suddenness into Aziraphale's back. All the hairs on the angel's neck prickle as dread sleets down his spine.

"I am so, _so_ sorry, my dear, I don't know _what_ I was thinking."

Crowley isn't moving. He isn't pulling away. His fingers are clenched in the angel's waistcoat, crushing the velvet in his grip.

"Do it again." His voice is a low growl, throat stripped raw by tears and wine, the words burning into the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale hesitates, then brushes his lips again across the pale skin.

"'S good." Crowley breathes. "Don't stop."

Aziraphale releases Crowley from his arms. The demon lets go reluctantly, confusion and hurt in his red-rimmed citrine eyes, face flushed with drink and wet from weeping.

"Crowley, I need you to sober up." Aziraphale pushes him back, just an arm's length, just enough space to breathe, to think. A million miles between their touch, hovering hands and hesitance.

"Don't want to be sober, angel, not now. I don't want to think." There's a hint of desperation on the demon's face, a yawning chasm in the width of his pupils. Aziraphale sets his jaw.

"You need to be sober, Crowley, or one, or both of us... will do something we'll regret. Please."

"Angel, come on..."

"Sober up, Crowley, do it now."

A flash of anger smears across the demon's face, swiftly followed by resignation. He closes his eyes and grimaces, shudders as the alcohol is purged from his body. When he opens his eyes again they are clear, he looks calmer, resolute.

"Are-are you... all right?" The angel asks, halting, hesitant. Crowley closes his eyes and snaps his head in a nod, swift and sharp.

"Yeah, I'm okay." Gleaming eyes open, the chin jerks up and away, his hands shake. "I... Can you... Again, please?"

"What are you asking me for?" And he has to be sure, he _has_ to know for certain.

"What you did... Can you just, just hold me again?" And he almost can't say it, because he despises himself for this weakness, the desire to hold and be held, the need to be loved... to love? He gave it up, the ability to love and be loved, when he took the burning brand of knowledge with both hands and felt himself scorched with truth, felt the very soul of himself shrivel and burn in the heat of God's wrath, when he smote himself in the chest with the ashes of what he was, took the smoldering embers of destroyed salvation and blackened his wings, tarnished his heart with the acid bile of his own burning questions as he vomited them forth. What can an angel do, against such hurts?

He does what only he would dare to do. He closes the gap between them and draws the very heat of damnation to his breast, clasps the demon close. The flames will not touch him because he knows love, and he knows that to truly feel loved you must give love in return.The love he has is as wide as the universe, ever expanding and infinite. It is not a thing that could be diminished by being shared. It is armor and shield and sword, and he soars on its wings and will not fall, and will not Fall.

The demon claws at his back, shaking and sobbing, and the angel kisses his throat where the hot blood of almost-humanity rushes in screaming pulses from his ancient heart. Crowley turns his head to breathe scorching words of quiet desperation into the angel's skin.

"Please, please..."

"I know, it's all right, it's all right." Aziraphale presses his mouth to the hollow of Crowley's cheek and breathes in his scent. It's man-smell, hot musk and stale sweat, wearing yesterday's aftershave and a day's worth of stubble. It's so terribly _human_ and _real_ , as if it couldn't possibly contain the enormity of the roiling soul lurking inside. He kisses his cheek again and Crowley twists his head to mouth at Aziraphale's neck, quick biting kisses, nipping with his lips at the soft skin.

"Hush now." The angel breathes cool on the demon's face. "I've got you. I'm here."

Crowley rests his forehead on the angel's shoulder, breathing hard. Aziraphale kisses his hair, his ear, his temple, rubs soothing circles on his back through his sweat soaked shirt. The demon is shaking, trembling in his arms and under his hands.

"How do you feel?" Aziraphale asks tentatively. Crowley gives a shaky laugh.

"Uh, like my heart's trying to escape out of my mouth. Like there's not enough air in here."

"Still a little anxious, then?"

"Um. Yes, but..." Crowley shifts in his embrace, and the angel is suddenly aware of an unfamiliar but not entirely unexpected pressure against his hip.

"Oh, my dear, it's all right."

"'S not." Crowley's hands slip down the angel's back to his hips, fingers digging into pliant flesh to draw their bodies hard together. "I'm going to tempt you, angel. 'S what I do."

"Crowley, you couldn't _possibly_ tempt me."

"Oh." The grip loosens, a tragic broken moment of miscommunication as the demon's back stiffens under his hands and he draws himself up and pulls away, coiling in on himself and around centuries of hurt. "Yeah, sorry, of course." He's shrugging his way out of the angel's arms, backing down, snatching himself away moth-like from the too-bright burning flame.

"No-no-no, what I _mean_ to say is that there's no _need_ for you to tempt me." Aziraphale doesn't close the gap that suddenly yawns between them, gives the moment time to breathe, let the demon inhale the truth of his words. "You don't _need_ to tempt me, Crowley, because there is _nothing_ that you could compel me to do that I wouldn't wish to."

"You don't know that." He's not looking at him now, he's turned his bruised eyes aside. "You don't know what I'm... What I want."

"Crowley..." The angel takes a deep breath. "Do you trust me?"

"'Course I trust you."

"Then let me love you."

The demon's fists clench, his teeth grind together. "I can't give it back."

"You don't have to."

"You don't _understand!"_ Crowley turns a gaze like floodlights onto the angel, and his voice is the pressurized hiss of escaping steam. "You don't know... I want to _drown_ you, angel. I want to tear you open and bury myself in you. I want to break you apart, piece by piece, with my bare hands. I want to _consume_ you. And _you..._ " He waves his arm, dismissive. "You want it to be tender, and-and meaningful and deep, and I can't, I _can't_ give that to you." His arm falls. "But I _want_ to. Satan help me, I want to be all those things for you."

The angel closes his eyes and allows the words to soak into him, basking in the spitting hissing fire of the demon's desperation.

"I would let you. I would give it to you, Crowley, all of it, everything you want."

"Don't..." Crowley turns away. Even with his eyes closed Aziraphale knows when the demon's gaze leaves his face, feels the heat of it slip away. He opens his own artless eyes, conviction and trust flowing out.

"Let me love you. Please, let me show you. And you don't have to do, or say, anything, Crowley, just let me show you, please. I need you to know."

"I'm not worth it, angel. I'm..."

"Oh, hush now." Aziraphale steps in and puts his hands to the demon's shoulders. He can feel him shaking, wonders briefly how much it's costing him to stay so painfully contained. "Of course you're worth it. Let me show you. And if, at any point, you want me to stop, you just say so." And his fingers are tracing the tendons in the demon's neck, and Crowley arches his head back but doesn't pull away. Aziraphale watches him swallow, the fluid movement of his throat under his fingertips. He trails his fingers down to unlace the demon's scarf, slow and gentle.

"I intend," the angel murmurs, as he slides the scarf from the demon's neck and drops it onto the floor, "to show you _just_ how worthy you are. I want you to know..." He leans in to press his mouth to the demon's neck. "That you are beautiful..." He kisses sharp collarbone, "That you are valued..." He kisses hollow cheek, "That you are loved."

Crowley's hand is in the angel's hair with shocking suddenness, gripping a fist-full of platinum curls and crushing their mouths together with bruising force. Aziraphale puts his hands on the demon's chest, feeling his thundering heart through his ribs. He tilts his head and opens his mouth, allowing the demon to work him open with his tongue, invading, plundering, the wicked slick heat flicking and darting, teeth clashing and biting, lips sliding and parting to meet again and again. Crowley's other arm is around him, clamping their bodies together, clenching in the plush softness of his buttock, gripping, clawing. He surrenders to the demon's heat, lets the fire of his lust wash over him, accepts the offering.

It's Crowley who backs off first, trembling lips kiss-swollen and slick as he flicks his tongue over them, tasting the other on his flesh. He pulls back because Aziraphale's hands are under his shirt, pressing into the searing skin of his back. He bares his teeth.

"Angel..." A small choked off sound as the cool hands smooth over the ridges of his spine, the prominence of his ribs. "Angel..." His hand leaves Aziraphale's hair to grip the back of the angel's neck.

"Let me see you, let me touch you." The angel murmurs, bunching and sliding the fabric in his hands, and Crowley lifts his arms to shed the shirt, Aziraphale's fingers trailing along his arms. The angel pauses a moment to survey the creature before him, man-shaped and pallid, wiry strength in his sinuous form, and fresh red marks slowly purpling, old yellow bruises jostling for space amongst the scars.

"Beautiful." The angel breathes, running his hand reverently down his chest. "Wonderful. Could I...?"

"Angel, if I don't tell you to stop, don't stop." Crowley's voice has gone husky with lust, and he groans as Aziraphale takes his hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his fingers, his knuckles, pressing adoration into the skin of his palm. "In fact, you could speed up if you want."

"Absolutely not." Aziraphale replies, before running his tongue across Crowley's palm, up his fingers, and sucking a long digit into his mouth.

" _Fuck_ ." Crowley grits his teeth. "I'm going to _ruin_ you."

"Now, now." Aziraphale's hands, the deft hands of a scholar, are palming the demon's want through the fabric of his trousers. Crowley snarls and pulls him in for another kiss, hungry to taste, to devour, to consume. The angel's hands are everywhere, clever, nimble fingers, trailing around the waistband, dipping under the belt, teasing, exploring. Crowley grinds his hardness into the angel's hip, nudges his thigh up between Aziraphale's legs.

"Not making an Effort for me, angel?" He growls, fastening his mouth to Aziraphale's neck. "Worried about what I might do to you?"

"Not at all." The angel pushes him back a pace to undo the demon's belt. "I'm merely focused, and I don't want the distraction."

"I'll make it worth your while." Crowley leers. "You have no _idea_ how I can make you feel, angel, the things I can do to you."

"Well, there will be ample time for that afterwards. For now..." Aziraphale rips the belt away and rests his hands on the sharp prominence of hipbones. "... I want you."

"You can have me." Crowley groans, his hands reaching out to clench like talons into the angel's shoulders. "You can have me, any way you want. Take me..."

"On the bed now, just sit still." Aziraphale is pushing him, guiding him with his hands on the demon's hips to sit back on the cozy little bed that, up until now, had mostly been for show. He pushes Crowley down to sit on the edge of the mattress before kneeling to undo the demon's shoes and slide them from his feet, slipping his socks off and caressing the soles with his fingernails to watch the toes curl.

"You were a bit higher up a moment ago." Crowley growls. "Think you could see your way to paying a bit more attention to that?"

"In a moment." Aziraphale appears to be in no rush, every move he makes is full of quiet determination and reverence. He kneels up to slowly undo the fly, and then grabs the waistband of Crowley's trousers and drags them down. The demon lifts his hips obligingly, pressing his pelvis forwards invitingly. Aziraphale glances at, but ignores, the provocative display, and Crowley snarls in annoyance.

"If you're going to fuck me, then just get on with it."

"I have absolutely _no_ intention of _fucking_ you." Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley's knee. "I intend to worship you."

Crowley makes a choking noise in the back of his throat as the angel's hands smooth up his thighs. "Blasphemy, angel?"

"Perhaps." Aziraphale's lips quirk in a swift smile. "But really, who's keeping score?"

Crowley strangles a gasp as the angel kisses his quivering thighs, his soft tender mouth whispering devotion into his skin, lipping at his sex through his underwear. The demon reaches down to push his hands through white blonde hair, feeling the silky strands slip through his fingers as Aziraphale kisses his love into his flesh, tattooing him with adoration.

"Angel..." He whispers. "Aziraphale..." But he doesn't say stop, and the angel drags the demon's underwear off and kisses his aching sex, nuzzles into the crook of his leg and laps at his length, cups his balls reverently in his hand. He smooths his fingers up the column of flesh and maps the ridges and veins with his tongue, and no heavenly choir could compare to the noise that Crowley makes when he takes his hot lust into his mouth.

Here is salt, and heat, and the bitter tang of the want seeping from the slit, and Aziraphale luxuriates in it as he slides his mouth down the velvet-soft skin over hardness, pressing his tongue into the prominent vein underneath, inhaling the musk trapped in the dark thatch of hair that graces the demon's pubis. Crowley's fingers clench in his hair, tight and painful, but this too is a thing to be savored. He draws his mouth up, sucks the soft tender flesh at the tip, flicks his tongue over the taut frenulum, and then dives back down to gag himself on the searing sensation of the tip hitting the back of his throat. Crowley is pulling his hair now, tugging at the platinum strands, moving the angel's head up and down. Aziraphale follows the movement, allows the demon to use him, devotes his mouth to his pleasure as he hollows his cheeks and presses his tongue up to squeeze the glans against the roof of his mouth as the demon fucks his face.

"Angel, angel..." Crowley's nails scrape his scalp, his hands are trembling as he tugs Aziraphale's hair, pulling him back and away. The demon's eyes are wide and shocked as he looks down on the angel, and how can Aziraphale still look so _innocent_ when he's just had his cock balls-deep down his throat? Crowley chokes on the sheer force of the love that's shining out of the angels eyes, and he grabs him by his arms and pulls him up and in, fastening their mouths with desperate hunger as the angel's hand finds his hardness again, and he's bucking his hips up into him.

"Angel, angel, don't, I'm so... you're..." He gasps, and Aziraphale stops his mouth with his own before kneeling once more before him.

"You... you don't have to..."

"I know. I _want_ to." And Crowley's world narrows to a single focal pint of warm wet mouth and tongue, speaking to him through his body, whispering love and love and love into his flesh. And he can't, he _can't_ , the thought of sullying this magnificent creature with his emissions is beyond him, but Aziraphale looks up at him and blinks, and it's almost assent, and it's almost a blessing, and it's almost absolution. _Do to me as you wish. Let me give this to you. Take what I give to you. Make of me what you will_. And the demon clenches his fists into the sheets and his back arches, and the angel takes him deep.

Aziraphale looks up at him, watches the tension building in the taut lines of his arms, the heaving chest, the tendons in his neck. The demon's mouth is open and he's panting, he's holding back, and Aziraphale doesn't want that. He wants to love him, to give him everything, to take all the empty spaces in him and fill them with delight, and so he twists his head and swallows, pulling his lover into his throat, rubbing his tongue over the heated hardness. Crowley tenses, his hips buck up and in, and he comes with a strangled gasp, and Aziraphale's mouth is filled with his essence, the very stuff of him. He closes his eyes to relish it, moves his mouth languidly over the pulsing flesh, drinking the last of his orgasm from his shaking body and imbibing deeply of his lust. Crowley's shaking hands card through his hair, and the angel opens his mouth reluctantly to let the slowly softening shaft fall from his lips as he sits back on his heels.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." Crowley breathes, fingers buried in silken shimmering softness, his golden eyes wide with astonishment.

"Such language." Aziraphale tuts, and Crowley barks a hoarse laugh.

"As if you haven't just been deep-throating a demon." He husks. He's trying for acid humor, but all that comes out is wonderment, and he hates himself for a fleeting moment.

"Yes, well, even so." Aziraphale says primly. "I have standards, dear."

Crowley looks down on him for another shining moment, before reaching for the angel's hands, tugging. "Come on, get up, you don't have to stay on the floor."

"Why, because you're not worthy?" Aziraphale looks innocent, but Crowley burns at the words.

"What, like you're paying me obeisance? Of course I'm not worthy, get up!"

Aziraphale makes no move to do so, and instead sets his mouth back to the demon's heated skin to kiss his thighs, running his hands up and down the long legs, trailing his fingers up over his hips and stomach. Crowley tries for a growl but his voice betrays him, and all he can do is moan.

"Come on, angel, you don't have to..."

"Not until you believe me." And now the angel is shifting, pushing himself up onto his knees and taking the demon's legs with him, hooking the long limbs over his shoulders, and why is it somehow _more_ erotic because the angel is still fully clothed, the demon wonders, as Aziraphale bends to kiss the junction of leg and hip.

"Lie back, now." Aziraphale pushes gently on Crowley's chest, but he reclines back on his elbows instead.

"I want to watch." He says, breathless, eyes glowing with amazement. The angel ponders, then nods, and with no other preamble dips down to lap delicately at the cleft between the demon's cheeks, and the noise that Crowley makes at that moment is, quite frankly, unholy.

There is salt sweat here too, the hot musk animal stink of arousal, and the coppery tang of the tight brown bud unfurling under his tongue as he tastes and teases. He runs his tongue across the shifting skin of the demon's balls, delighting in the texture, and sucks one into his mouth. Crowley is trying to strangle his moans, and Aziraphale looks up from his ministrations.

" _Do_ let me know if you're enjoying yourself, you have _such_ a lovely voice."

All Crowley can do is give a breathy cry as the angel's face disappears between his legs again, and the strong, delicate tongue prods inquisitively at his entrance.

"Oh angel, oh fuck, _angel..._ "

And Aziraphale can't reply because his tongue has slipped inside, and Crowley's body is quivering against his mouth as he tastes him, opens him, the textures and scents heady and intoxicating. Such a dainty morsel, one to be savored, the finest of delicacies spread before him, and he indulges like the true gourmand he is. It's now that his own arousal manifests and he groans with the heat of it, the _need_ of it. The demon's legs are shaking on his shoulders, his own desire evident as his sex twitches and hardens against his stomach.

Crowley's crying out now, with every thrust of the angel's clever tongue into that tender shivering heat, curling and writhing inside him with swift darting movements. His arms are shaking and his neck is aching but he can't tear his eyes away from the sight of the angel eating him, and apparently enjoying every moment. He wants to think about how filthy it is, how degrading, but all he can focus on is the glorious sensation of being worshiped by that extraordinary mouth and tongue, and the thought that Aziraphale is making him feel more desirable than he ever thought possible.

Aziraphale sits back on his heels with every sign of reluctance at tearing himself away from his feast. He looks up at the shaking demon with a beatific smile before sucking one finger into his mouth and then pressing it to the tight entrance, gentle and tender as he pushes himself in. Crowley's arms give out and he collapses onto his back with a groan, limbs twitching and hands scrabbling at the sheets as sweat breaks on his brow and the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

"Is this all right?" Aziraphale's voice sounds rough and strained. Crowley can only nod and moan.

"Yes, yes, good, fuck..."

Spit doesn't work like this, he knows, shouldn't be providing such wonderful slick wetness, cool and soothing on the burning ring of taut muscle as the angel draws his finger out and replaces it with two, whilst simultaneously bending his head to lap at the demon's shaft. Crowley's legs are shaking over his shoulders, his toes curl as Aziraphale finds that place inside him that fills his head with sparks. He must be doing _something_ , Crowley thinks hazily, must be using some minor miracle to slick his fingers because there's no _way_ he could be up to his knuckles and stroking his prostate with just a lick of his fingers, and then his mind explodes with stars again and tears his conscious thoughts to shreds, and he tilts his hips to press himself onto the angel's hand with a wild cry.

Aziraphale pushes himself up on shaking legs to bend over the demon and capture his mouth, slick fingers sliding and working as he drinks every cry and breathes in the moans, his other hand palming himself through his trousers.

"Let me touch you." Crowley gasps against his mouth, writhing on his hand. "Let me, please."

"My dear, you don't have to ask for permission."

Crowley unwinds his fingers from the sheets and runs trembling hands over velvet waistcoat, bare forearm dusted with downy blonde hair.

"Too many clothes." He growls. "Want you, all of you."

"Of course." The angel kisses his mouth and it's cool water, quenching and reviving, and how can something that makes his body burn with passion also calm the raging inferno in his mind? He groans as Aziraphale slips his fingers out to stand up and take his pocket watch off, placing it carefully on the nightstand. He reaches up to slowly unbutton his waistcoat and Crowley watches, mesmerized. He'd love to say that he can't remember the last time he saw the angel naked, but it would be a lie because that day in the bath house in Rome has seared itself into his mind, and he's lost count of how many times he debased himself in private remembering the soft curls of white-blonde hair on the angel's chest, the gentle curve and sweep and dip of his flesh. He wants to dig his fingers into it, bury his face into pliant softness, sink his teeth into the ripe peach plushness of him and get drunk on the juice.

Aziraphale's waistcoat is draped ceremoniously over a chair as he shoulders his way out of his braces, removes his bow-tie with a tug and throws it aside, and then untucks his shirt to begin undoing the buttons.

"Me. Let me. I want..." Crowley's sitting up, reaching out, and how can the angel resist? He smiles, fondness and warmth and not a little desire in his sparkling eyes as he moves to stand between the demon's open knees. Crowley's hands rest on his shoulders for a moment as the demon bows his head, pressing his forehead into the angel's sternum, just breathing him in, before he leans back to start unbuttoning the shirt, delicate pearly buttons slipping loose to reveal that which he knew he would see, but which is none the less glorious for being expected. He rubs his cheek over the soft hairs on his chest, lets his hands slip round his back to press and knead into so-soft flesh, cool and inviting. Aziraphale slides a hand through his hair as the demon presses scorching kisses into the softness of his stomach, sets his teeth as gently as he can bear into the curve of his waist.

"Come on, now, lie back for me. Let me love you." And how can the demon resist? He lies down, expectant, burning, and Aziraphale sheds the rest of his clothes with languid grace.

"Angel, angel, fuck me, take me..." He pants, spreading himself in invitation. Aziraphale breathes a shuddering sigh.

"Patience, my dear, is a virtue." He admonishes gently, as he leans over to set his mouth around the peak of a taut nipple, worrying it gently with his teeth.

"Don't have any virtues, angel." Crowley gasps, one hand in the angel's hair, the other smoothing over his own cock, bringing himself once more to fullness. "Comes with the territory."

"Nonsense." Aziraphale returns one hand to its previous occupation, and Crowley arches off the bed with a groan. "I think you show kindness..." He crooks his fingers and the demon cries out. "... and diligence..." He twists the digits and scissors them, opening, stretching. "... and charity..."

"Angel, please, _fuck_ , I'm ready, _please..._ "

"Yes, yes... Give me a moment, or I'm afraid this may be somewhat brief." Aziraphale's head bows to rest on the demon's chest with a shuddering sigh as he slides his fingers free of the tight heat of the his body, and Crowley's head snaps back and he cries out in startled wonder as the angel turns his head to sink his teeth with shocking suddenness into his pectoral.

Aziraphale pushes himself up to stand, looking down on Crowley with such love that the demon feels drowned in it, such delight and adoration pouring from his eyes that for a moment he simply basks in it, lets it wash over him. He drags his burning gaze over the expanse of skin laid bare, the tight blonde curls over the girthy cock standing proud between cushioned hips, thick thighs begging for teeth-marks and love-bites, the sweeping, curving landscape of his generous waist. A surge of lust crashes over him and he lunges up and grabs the angel's hips. "All of you, in me, _now_."

"Now, wait _just_ a moment..."

"Oh, are you worried about lubricant?" Crowley waggles an eyebrow salaciously. "Maybe I can help you there..." He dips himself down and engulfs the angel's cock, sweeping his tongue around and over it as he slides it to the back of his throat and the angel's fingers clench tightly in his hair. What a delight to have his mouth filled so completely, to have to stretch his jaw to accommodate the thick length that lies heavy and throbbing on his tongue, to dig his fingers into the thick padding of thigh and buttock and pull until his aching throat is filled and distended with it.

"Stop, stop!" Aziraphale's voice is strangled, and Crowley draws back reluctantly to look up at him.

The angel's limpid eyes are wide, and there's a hint of panic in their fathomless depths, and Crowley feels a spike of anxiety.

"You okay?" He asks, smoothing his hands over the angel's pale flanks. Aziraphale nods and graces him with a shaky smile.

"Yes, yes, but..." He takes a deep breath and blows it out. "I'm afraid I wasn't speaking entirely flippantly when I, uh, expressed a concern for my, shall we say, stamina."

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment to steady himself against the dizzying thought that the angel was _this close_ from just pleasing _him._ He opens his gleaming eyes and devours the sight of Aziraphale's flushed cheeks and pouting lips, sweat glistening on his pale chest, trembling hands still tangled in carmine locks.

"As slow as you like, angel." He murmurs, chastened. "I know I go too fast, sometimes, and I'm sorry. I know I'm not nice like you, caring and giving..."

" **Enough** ." And _there's_ the power, the cold-as-ice hardness in the angel's eyes that speaks of strength beyond human understanding and Crowley almost cowers before it, _almost_ , before Aziraphale slips his hands from his hair to cup his jaw, cradling his face with aching tenderness.

"Don't you _dare_ belittle yourself in front of me, Crowley. Don't you _dare_ . You are _glorious_ , and I won't hear another word about it."

"Better shut me up, then." A last ditch attempt to shroud himself in the tattered shreds of his cool aloofness, his acid sarcasm, but it's a weak shot and he knows it as the angel's thumb brushes his lip and he sighs and despises himself for it.

"Oh, my dear..." The look he gives the demon is so soft with benevolence that a part of Crowley wants to tear it from his face, and another part of him wants to do anything, _anything,_ just to see it again. "One day, you will stop thinking that you have to hide from me behind your glasses and your haughty indifference." He leans in and presses their mouths together, and Crowley can't help but whimper as the pure, unfettered _love_ crashes over him and into him and through him, and he wraps his arms around the angel and pulls him close, opening his mouth to him. _Give it to me, all of you, let me devour you, absorb you, consume you._

"No more talking." Crowley rasps as soon as he can free his mouth enough to get his lips to form the words. Aziraphale smiles, that beautiful shining smile that Crowley just wants to bite off his face and swallow whole simply so that he can keep it all for himself, and the angel reaches down and hooks the demon's legs over his shoulders again, pulling his hips to the edge of the bed and rolling him up onto his shoulders. Crowley reaches for him like a drowning man for a lifebelt and latches his fingers in the gentle rolling curves of the angel's hips.

"Do it. _**Do it** _ _._ " Because if the angel can use a little divine power to make _him_ feel good, then who could blame a demon for asserting a little of his own infernal influence to compel the angel to defile him? And yet somehow, as he is stretched, breached, invaded, _somehow_ it feels like a benediction, and he lets his head fall back and allows a low groan to fall from his lips as he is filled and satiated.

"Oh." Is all the angel says, until he pulls back and pushes in again, deeper this time. "Oh _fuck._ "

Crowley can't answer at all. His fingers are scrabbling at anything he can reach, Aziraphlae's arms, his hips, the sheets, his golden eyes rolling madly. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"Az-Aziraphale... Angel, please..."

"Anything, anything, I'll give it all to you, my beautiful, my darling, my love..."

Crowley seems to gag on the words, choking, almost retching, his lips pulling away from his teeth and his head craning back.

"Say it again." He begs, pawing at the angel's arms, pressing himself up, impaling himself.

"My darling, my love, my love..."

Crowley heaves himself against the angel, writhing, his hardness weeping against his stomach as his fingers twist themselves into the sheets and his back arches away from the mattress.

"Yessss..."

Aziraphale leans back, straightens his spine, searching for the perfect angle that will give the beautiful creature underneath him everything he deserves. He cups a hand under Crowley's hip, lifting him up as he moves inside him, pressing and driving to find... there! The demon's head snaps back, neck taut, lips pulled tight against sharp white teeth, grinding out a moan, all unwilling to allow himself to be seen coming undone.

"That's it, my darling, my lovely, my love..."

It's the most heady rush he's ever felt, to see this incredible being falling apart under his touch, and in mere moments it threatens to overwhelm him, but not yet, not yet does he seek his own pleasure, not yet will he slake his thirst, not until he knows that the one he loves is fulfilled and replete, and well does he know the feeling of being gorged, and he wants his lover to feel the same, awash with delight, glutted and satisfied beyond meaning. He bites his lip hard, the shock of pain a counterpoint and companion to the exquisite pleasure of the convulsing constriction around that most intimate part of himself. He rolls his hips, teasing, enticing, just to watch the demon shiver underneath him, before setting to with a will, a determination to see the look of ecstasy that will sweep over his lover's face.

Aziraphale turns his head to kiss Crowley's leg, slung as it is over his shoulder, tries in every way that he can to breathe devotion into his skin as he loves him, cranes back to kiss the arch of his foot, the curling toes, mouth his adoration into the flesh of that which he most desires.

"Angel..." Crowley chokes, gasping, his fingers clawing at the sheets. "Please..."

"What do you need? Tell me, love, anything, it's yours..."

"Touch me, _fuck_ , angel, touch me..."

He does, wrapping his hand around heated hardness and fighting his own rising desire as the demon bucks into and onto him, growling and panting.

"Angel, angel, say it again, tell me..."

"I love you, I love you..."

The demon's back arches off the bed and his nails claw into the angel's arms as he shouts, spilling himself over the hand that wrings him, soothes him, placates him. His body tightens and spasms around the hot flesh that fills him, and Aziraphale grits his teeth and rides out his lover's ecstasy, driving him onward and upwards, exulting in the meaningless, wordless cries that he's drawing from the beautiful creature writhing under and around him.

He slows his movements, maintains a gentle rocking pace to ease the demon over the crest of his euphoria and down into the dragging undertow of satiation. Crowley's head lolls limp, eyes heavy lidded and limbs twitching with electric-current aftershocks. The angel slides the demon's legs from his shoulders to bend over him and drink the gasping breath from his hot mouth, and Crowley's hand slides up into his blonde hair to keep him there as the demon rolls his hips and captures the cry from the angel's lips.

"Crowley..."

"That's it angel, take me, take me..." _Give it to me, give me your all and your everything, the very essence of you, fill me, complete me._

Crowley's legs come up to wrap the angel's waist, tugging at his hips and pulling their bodies together, urging him on, deeper, harder. Aziraphale groans and presses his forehead into the demon's shoulder as a tremor wracks his body and he pushes himself up onto his toes to curl himself around his lover, driving himself towards his completion. Crowley growls wordlessly and drags his nails down the angel's back, and for a heart-stopping moment Aziraphale wonders what would happen if the demon were to lose control, turn savage and monstrous. The thought of the raw animal lust of the creature beneath him is intoxicating, and he shivers in delighted horror. He wants to ask, is almost afraid to ask, then the demon writhes again under him and his lust peaks and his caution flees.

"Bite me." He groans into the sharp points of bone jutting from the pale skin. "Bite me!" He begs, and the demon snarls and latches too-sharp-to-be-truly-human teeth into the soft tender place where his neck meets his shoulder and he cries out, wordless and passionate.

"Bite me!" A breathy shout as his mind shears away into spiraling glorious ecstasy and the beast savages him, tearing into him, clawing brutal lines into the softness of him, releasing his soul from his body to fling his mind wide to the delights of the bestial carnality that lurks within the human shell he wears, and he screams and dies and rises again inside the demon's body with an explosion of supernovae.

He's gasping when he returns to his body, shuddering, his face wet with sweat and tears that he can't remember shedding. Crowley is beneath him and around him, cradling him, kissing the marks his passion has left in his skin. Aziraphale pushes himself up, trembling arms weak as saplings.

"Best get up here before you fall down." Crowley's voice is raw and harsh, scream-stripped and dry. The angel's head reels as he tries to stand, and he slumps over to crawl up onto the bed and collapse on his side. The demon wriggles up to slip under his out-flung arm, shuffling into the angel's body to kiss his face, his brow, his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Crowley murmurs, soothing his hurts with his soft mouth.

"Please, don't be." And he means it. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

"You're gonna have a mark there." The demon smooths his fingers over the welt in his neck, and Aziraphale shivers as the brushing touch wakens the broken skin into shimmers of delightful pain.

"Good. I think I may keep it."

There's an aching, waiting moment, where all they can do is lie and breathe and be, within themselves, with each other, knowing themselves and each other. Crowley shifts and winces, his eyes darting.

"A-Aziraphale..." He coughs, a rough sound.

"I love you." The angel whispers. He could shout it, _scream_ it, and it would have no more meaning than the mere breath of the words that he sends ghosting over the searing skin of the demon. Crowley closes his eyes against it, the bright shining truth of it, and lets it bless him, allows himself to be exalted, if only for a moment.

"Angel..." His lips pull back, and there's a hot feeling in his throat, a burning coal made of three words that would scorch his lips if he coughs it up. It lodges in his chest and sears through to his heart, warning. _Don't try, monster. You are the Fallen. You are unworthy. You have not the right._

"Crowley?" The suggestion of a feather-light eyebrow raised in question, in consternation. The demon coughs again.

"There's a look..." He draws a breath. "... a look you get, when I've done something that _really_ pisses you off, but you're not gonna tell me because you know I'll only do it again. And-and when we're out, any time you catch sight of yourself in something reflective you just _have_ to make sure your bow-tie is perfectly straight. And you have to have your tea made _just so_ and that used to drive me _nuts._ When you've finally got your hands on some rare first edition your eyes just _glow,_ you know? And-And whenever you're eating..."

Aziraphale smiles softly and lies there, smoothing his hand up and down the demon's flank while Crowley tries to say, in as many ways as he can, what he is unable to say.


End file.
